Home is

I can tell you what a home is not:

--

A home is not the physical structure

where walls hold the weight, and the roof keeps rain off

not the address on an envelope or the key that fits into a lock

it isn't the mortgage, the floor plan, the deed, or even the square footage.

You can't build a life on a thousand square feet when you are empty inside.

Nor is it bricks stacked on bricks into permanence.

--

A home is not its possessions, things bought when times were good.

Not the furniture arranged just so or the poses in picture frames sharing the lie.

Not the insurance filed and claimed when a fire hits or a catastrophe lands.

Things can be filled with purpose, but they don't make up a home.

They don't complete you.

--

A home isn't just a brick or a beam

or anything that stands still while everything else moves about.

It's not a thing you can lose to fire, flood, or foreclosure.

It isn't anything that can be taken, sold, or boarded up.

A house is a thing, but not a home.

--

A home is a feeling.

A home is a smell. A touch. A voice. A memory.

Everything vast and unseen.

--

It is the smell of you while you wrap your arms around me before bedtime.

Fresh from the bath. Asking for one more story before sleep.

It is the tight grip you give as I say goodnight.

Holding tight as if that strength can show me how much you love.

(Not like I need the reminder.)

It is your soft voice as you call for me at night. As the nightmares hit.

When darkness curls around, and you want nothing more than your mother.

It is every single memory of you.

From birth to now.

Mourning every different stage and yet fascinated by every single growth.

Home is it. Home is where my heart is.

Home is where all my love is.